LIBRARY 

OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


OF" 


Class 


\ 


OF    EL    DORADO 


BY 


HOWARD    GLYNDON 

(Mrs.  Laura  C.  Redden  Searing) 


Rose  leaves  floating  on  the  foam  lees 

Of  a  swollen  brook  in  sfring, — 
These  may  typify  the  tenor 

Of  the  songs   1  bring,- 
For  if  not,  like  those  sweet   vagrants, 

Near  allied  to  love  and  mirth, 
In   their  lightness  and  their  slightness 

They  V«  as  little  worth! 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

C.    A.    MURDOCK  &  CO. 

1897 


MA/ 

Contents 


ADMISSION  DAY, 5 

THE  UNVEILING  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN,        ....  9 

DECEMBER  IN  CALIFORNIA, « 

MAY  IN  CALIFORNIA, 15 

CALIFORNIA  GOLD, 17 

A  CALIFORNIA  ROSE  FAIR 19 

DEL  MONTE,  MARCH,  '87 21 

A  SUMMER  SONG  OF  THE  SEA,         .       .        .        .       .  23 

THE  HILLS  OF  SANTA  CRUZ 25 

THE  HOMES  OF  SANTA  CRUZ 29 

CALIFORNIA  DIAMONDS, 33 

CAPITOLA,    .        • 35 

MEMORIAL  DAY  IN  CALIFORNIA;  THE  G.  A.  R.,         .        .  37 


126729 


Admission  Day. 

(California,  September  9,  1850.) 

Native  Sons  of  the  Golden  West! 

Daughters  dear,  of  the  loveliest  land 
That  ever  the  sunlight  hath  caressed, 

Fresh  and  fair  from  the  Maker's  hand! 
The  day  that  to-day  ye  celebrate 

Is  the  day  of  days  \nyour  calendar; 
So  young  are  the  years  of  your  golden  State 

That  her  children's  spirits  are  still  astir. 

Their  hearts  still  thrilled  and  their  blood  aflame 
With  the  thought  of  all  that  the  news  implied, 

Upon  that  day  when  the  tidings  came 

And  their  loved  land  stood  up,  flushed  with  pride, 

In  the  ranks  of  her  sister  States,  a  State; 
Brave  blood,  strong  heart,  and  a  will  to  do! 


6  Of  El  Dorado. 

They  kept  her  not  at  the  entrance  gate, 

For  she  brought  as  her  dower  a  thing  or  two 
That  her  elegant  sisters  could  not  despise 

( Their  descents  were  long,  but  her  clothes  were 

new); 

She  was  splendid  and  rare,  if  not  old  and  wise — 
She,  of  whom  you  're  proud — the  Mother  of 
you  ! 

They  pictured  her  in  the  days  of  old 

As  a  couchant  panthress  —  an  untamed  thing, 
As  a  savage  princess  decked  with  gold, 

With  barbaric  glitter  of  chain  and  ring. 
Deep  in  her  eyes  were  the  dreams  of  Spain, 

And  her  savage  blood  had  a  tinge  of  blue; 
Oft  was  she  sought  and  wooed  in  vain  — 

She,  of  whom  you  're  proud  —  the  Mother  of 
you  ! 

Of  her  early  days,  what  memories  throng, 

When  they  would  have  made  her  a  dusky  nun! 

But  the  floating  fragments  of  foreign  song 
Were  lost  in  silence  ere  well  begun. 


Admission  Day.  7 

And  all  of  the  time  she  hid  in  her  heart 

Its  golden  secret  for  you  destined; 
You,  the  fruits  of  her  Statehood,  were  set  apart, 

To  have  what  the  others  could  not  find ! 

Ye  may  well  be  proud  of  her  —  call  her  fair — 

Love  her  sun-kiss' d  cheeks  and  her  lovesome 

lips  — 
Play  with  her  splendid  lengths  of  hair  — 

Kiss  her  eyes,  whose  glory  all  gems  eclipse! 
To  each  native  daughter  and  native  son, 

Scions  of  such  a  wonderful  tree, 
I  say  that  since  ever  the  world  begun 

No  land  has  been  worthy  of  love,  as  she. 

"As  true  as  gold"  and  "as  good  as  gold," 

Was  a  saying,  when  she  was  hid  from  sight; — 
So  they  said  in  the  days  of  old, 

When  she  came  to  them  in  the  dreams  of  night; 
And  as  good  she  is,  as  her  own  pure  gold; 

And  as  fair  and  precious,  and  firm  and  true; 
With  the  most  of  her  story  yet  untold  — 

This  is  she  that  you  love  —  the  Mother  of  you ! 


8  Of  El  Dorado. 

She  will  bring  you  love,  she  will  bring  you  wealth, 

She  will  bring  you  gladness  and  length  of  days, 
And,  better  than  gold,  she  will  bring  you  health, 

She  whom  her  children  are  proud  to  praise ! 
Oh,  right  you  are  to  call  her  the  gem 

In  the  bright  confederacy  of  States ! 
But  see  that  you  shine  in  her  diadem, 

For  the  will  of  the  world  upon  you  waits; 
And  the  eye  of  the  world  is  on  you,  sharp, 

And  the  thought  of  the  world,  it  questioneth  you ; 
And  since  you  are  born  to  a  golden  harp, 

See  that  the  music  you  make  is  true! 


The  Unveiling  of  the  Fountain. 


The  Unveiling  of  the  Fountain. 

(Presented  to  San  Francisco  by  Mayor  James  D.  Phelan,  and  dedi 
cated  to  the^  Native  Sons  of  the  Golden  West,  September,  1897.) 


This  delicate  shaft,  so  slender,  yet  so  strong, 

How  proudly  it  upbears 
Its  splendid  burden,  perfect  as  a  song, 

The  which,  it  crownlike  wears  ! 

Meet  art  thou,  O  fair  figure,  to  uphold, 

With  arms  untired  and  young, 
Th'  unwritten  book,  like  to  a  cup  unfilled, 

Like  to  a  song  unsung  ! 

But  that  fine  future  toward  which  thy  face 
With  such  glad  pride  is  turned, 

Shall  grasp  and  hold  thee  in  a  long  embrace 
Till  all  its  fame  is  earned. 

That  chronicle,  as  yet  unwrit,  is  all 
That  older  lands  have  won; 


io  Of  El  I)  or  ado. 

And  '  t  will  be  grandly  more,  whate'  er  befall 
Beneath  the  onlooking  sun; 

For  it  shall  be  the  pride  of  him  who  stands, 

All  rugged,  at  thy  feet, 
To  bear  aloft  the  flag  within  his  hands, 

Each  nook  of  earth  to  greet ! 

And  steadily  the  nations  all  shall  stream 
Through  thy  wide  Golden  Gate; 

Oh,  California !  fair  as  any  dream ! 
On  thee  the  world  shall  wait. 

Ah,  Fountain  !     Let  thy  virginal  waters  gush 

Freely,  to  flow  unstained; 
And  never  may  thy  voice's  music  hush 

Till  all  our  glory 's  gained. 

Thy  Maker  and  Inspirer,  worthy  each 
The  soil  from  which  they  sprung; 

For  Brother-love  and  love  of  Art  they  teach ; 
Of  these  my  muse  has  sung. 

San  Francisco, 

September  9,  1897. 


December  in  California.  n 


December  in   California. 

I  walked  to-day  in  my  garden 

That  never  fears  the  frost, 
Where  I  never,  like  Bryant,  the  poet, 

Mourn  for  the  blossoms  lost;* 
And  I  thought  of  the  bleak,  bare  meadows 

And  the  leafless  woods  of  the  North, 
Where  the  heralds  of  the  Storm  King 

Are  girding  and  riding  forth. 

I  walked  where  the  calla  lily, 

Nymph-like,  is  holding  up, 
Out  of  her  exquisite  bower, 

Her  faultless,  creamy  cup; 
Where  the  heliotrope,  so  fragrant, 

Opens  its  purple  eyes, 


The  Death  of  the  Flowers." 


12  Of  El  Vorado. 

Modest,  but  frank  and  generous, 
Forgetting  to  court  disguise. 

Where  a  thousand  roses  are  smiling 

Full  in  the  face  of  the  sun, 
As  perfect  as  if  their  blooming 

Had  only  to-day  begun; 
And  mignonette  runs  riot 

In  the  kindly  soil  at  their  feet, 
While  the  crowds  of  dainty  marguerites 

Whisper,  how  life  is  sweet! 

Where  the  tall  and  sturdy  geranium 

Flames  in  the  roadside  hedge, 
And  hangs  its  scarlet  blossoms 

All  over  many  a  ledge; 
Near  the  lemon  verbena  spicy, 

That's  like  California  girls, 
Who  bare  their  cheeks  to  the  sea  breeze, 

And  let  it  ruffle  their  curls. 

And  I  paused  where  that  fragrant  hostage 
Of  a  royal  golden  dower  — 


December  in  California. 

Beloved  of  brides  expectant  — 

The  tropical  orange  flower, 
Revealed  by  its  breath,  delicious 

As  a  maiden's  dream  of  love, 
Hung,  betrayed  in  its  ambush, 

As  by  its  murmur,  the  dove; 

By  the  palm  tree,  straight  and  stately, 

As  some  dusky,  Orient  maid; 
Where  the  humming  bird  was  fluttering, 

Radiant  and  unafraid; 
Well  I  knew  he  was  seeking 

For  the  jasmine's  honeyed  lips, 
Though  he  lingered  where  the  nectar 

Of  the  white  crape  myrtle  drips. 

They '  re  all,  all  here,  the  flowers, 

Brought  from  many  a  land; 
And  the  treasured  exotics,  fearless, 

With  the  woodland  blossoms  stand; 
And  they  call  to  their  far-off  sisters 

With  one  musical  refrain: 


14  Of  El  Dorado. 

' '  You  are  hiding  from  the  winter, 
We '  re  laughing  in  the  rain ! 

"  Come  where  there's  naught  to  make  us 

Shrivel  or  turn  afraid; 
Where  the  wind  lilts,  like  a  lover, 

Through  every  ferny  glade; 
Where  a  hundred  thousand  wellsprings 

Nourish  our  grateful  roots; 
Where  a  million  fostering  sunbeams 

Warm  our  growing  shoots. 

' '  Come  to  the  flowers'  kindest 

Refuge  on  all  the  earth, 
Where  the  shy  and  timid  violet 

All  the  year  looks  forth. 
For  we  nod  upon  the  hilltop, 

We  smile  upon  the  plain, 
And  while  you  hide  from  winter, 

We're  laughing  in  the  rain." 


May  in  California. 


May  in   California. 

O  Nature,  let  me  lay  my  heart, 

Dear  mother,  close  beside  thine  own ! 

For  what  true  child  of  thine  can  say, 
"I  am  left  all  alone!" 

So  long  as  thou  dost  keep  for  him 

Such  peaceful  Paradise  on  earth 
As  this,  where  every  lovely  thing 
Is  fostered  into  birth, 

And  springs  into  such  perfect  life 

As  that  worn  world,  so  gray  and  dim , 

That  lies  so  far  away  from  here, 
Beyond  the  horizon's  rim, 

Knows  not  and  cannot  realize, 
And  sneers  to  hear  of.  —  Pitiful 


16  Of  El  Dorado. 

The  plight  of  one  whom  suffering  makes 
Incredulous  and  dull. 

That  Eden  should  come  true  again, 

Serene  as  on  its  natal  day, 
Smiling  beneath  the  kindest  skies 

Upon  the  lap  of  May; 

Who  would  believe  it  —  seeing  not  — 
That  we  recover  that  lost  land? 

Who  would  believe  us  without  proof, 
Or  trust  the  beckoning  hand  ? 

But  Nature  keeps  her  precious  things 
For  her  true  children;  gently  here 

She  calls  them  to  her  faithful  breast 
And  kindly  draws  them  near. 


California   Gold.  17 


California  Gold. 

(The  Eschscholtzia. ) 

Never  the  grasp  of  greed,  the  brutal  touch 

Of  hands  sin-grimed  and  sold 
To  avarice  and  lusting  over  much, 

Have  soiled  thy  virgin  gold. 

Nor  thee  profaned,  rare  treasure- trove,  that  gleams 

In  El  Dorado's  earth! 
Never  thy  shining  dulled  or  cankered  seems, 

Nor  cheapened  is  thy  worth. 

And  with  thy  unstained  wealth  we  cannot  buy 

Things  garish,  things  that  flaunt; 
Thou  pleasurest  not  the  coarsened,  untaught  eye; 

Thyself  thou  dost  not  vaunt. 

And  yet,  when  night  thy  yellow  flag  hath  furled, 
Often  I  bend,  by  stealth, 


1 8  Of  El  T)  or  ado. 

To  bless  thee  for  thy  day's  work  in  the  world, 
Thy  glad,  untroubled  health. 

For  I  have  marked  thee  when  thou  openest 

Upon  the  sun  thine  eyes, 
Baring  to  him  the  riches  of  thy  breast — 

Scornful  of  all  disguise. 

Are  thy  bright  leaves  a  promise,  golden  flower, 

Of  higher,  rarer  things 
Than  all  the  favors  that  the  present  hour 

To  El  Dorado  brings  ? 


A  California  Rose  Fair.  19 


A   California  Rose  Fair. 

A  feast  of  roses  in  the  land  of  gold ! 

Well  might  their  sisters  in  Cashmere's  fair  vale, 
That  Tom  Moore  raved  about,  with  poignant  envy 

Droop  and  turn  pale. 

For  here  these  queens  of  flowers,  each  one  lovelier 
Than  the  preceding,  maze  us  with  their  splendor, 

Until  we  falter  in  a  sea  of  beauty, 
Half  drowned  in  reveries  tender. 

Attar  of  roses !  O  divinest  perfume ! 

The  costliest  incense  of  the  Persian  clime ! 
But  we  can't  smile  at  fables  Oriental  — 

We  have  it  all  the  time ! 

For  here,  the  rarest  roses,  elsewhere  fostered 
With  jealous  care,  and  guarded  night  and  day, 


20  Of  El  Dorado. 

Are  flung  into  our  laps  in  careless  luxury, 
And  grow  their  own  sweet  way. 

Fearless  of  chilling  frosts  or  storms  Atlantic, 

Ah,  well  might  some  new  Lallah  Rookh  exclaim : 

This  is  a  rose  elysium,  angel-guarded, 
Thrice  worthy  of  thy  name! 

Our  land's  best  gold  not  in  the  earth  is  hidden, 
Its  radiance  shines  upon  the  upturned  faces, 

Even  of  its  flowers,  born  of  the  divine, 
Life-giving  Sun's  embraces. 

Therefore,  we  hold  our  rose  feast  of  thanksgiving 
For  the  flower-treasure  of  our  golden  year 

In  this  gold  land,  clasped  by  God's  love  and  nature's, 
Where  life  need  know  no  fear ! 

May,  1887. 


Del  Monte,  March,  '87.  21 


Del   Monte,  March,  '87. 

Oh!  siren-sweet  Del  Monte  smiled, 
Sitting  beside  the  summer  sea, 

Bland  old  Pacific's  charming  child, 
Brightening  the  breast  of  Monterey. 

How  sped  the  lovely,  luresome  days! 

How  melted  into  morn  glad  nights! 
'  Midst  her  embowered,  enchanted  ways, 

Nestled  amid  serene  delights. 


But  what?     But  what?     An  ominous  glow 
Deepened  and  brightened  o'er  the  bay 

And  shone  across  its  placid  flow, 

Startled,  we  cried:   '"T is  Del  Monte!" 

Ah!  what  could  harm  so  rare  a  thing  — 
And  on  a  night  so  silver-fair? 


22  Qf  El  Dorado. 

Only  the  trees  did  shadows  fling — 
Only  did  sigh  the  love-soft  air. 

And  many  a  heart  in  many  a  clime 
Shall  start  with  pain  and  sadly  say: 

"Burned?    There  I  spent  my  happiest  time; 
Alas,  for  lovely  Del  Monte!" 

The  New  Del  Monte,  December,  '87. 

Out  of  her  ashes  she  rises, 

Created  anew, 
And  steps  to  the  seat  that  she  slipped  from, 

By  the  bay  waters,  blue. 

And  seeing  her  sit  there  serenely, 

As  fair  as  of  eld, 
The  tale  of  her  loss  seems  a  rumor 

Right  swiftly  dispelled. 

Was  it  true?    Did  she  perish?    Ah,  never! 

It  was  but  the  mist 
That  came  'twixt  our  eyes  and  her  splendor 

That  was  all — I  insist! 


A  Summer  Song  of  the  Sea.  23 


A  Summer  Song  of  the  Sea. 

Betwixt  blue  and  blue! 

Face  to  face  with  the  sky, 
Or  heart  to  heart  with  the  ocean, 

Lazily  let  me  lie. 
Arms  of  the  great  Sea-Mother, 

Restfulest  ye  of  all, 
Even  when  you  lure  us  downward 

Beyond  recall. 

Betwixt  blue  and  blue! 

Fair  is  the  sight  of  the  sky, 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  ocean, 

Lightly  the  winds  go  by! 
'Tis  the  dear  sea's  heart  that  calms  us 

With  its  rhythmic  rise  and  fall, 
And  to  feel  it  throbbing  beneath  us 

Is  best  of  all. 


24  Of  El  Dorado. 

Betwixt  blue  and  blue! 

Alone  with  the  sea  and  the  sky; 
Oh,  to  lie  here  forever, 

Not  questioning  why! 
With  the  kind  sky's  face  above  me, 

And  the  kind  sea's  heart  below, 
Soothed  by  the  wind's  light  touches 

That  come  and  go. 

Bay  of  Monterey, 

Summer,  '97 


The  Hills  of  Santa  Cruz. 


The  Hills  of  Santa  Cruz.* 

I  Ve  seen  the  far-off  Apennines 

Melt  into  dreamy  skies; 
I  've  seen  the  peaks  that  Switzers  love 

In  snowy  grandeur  rise; 
And  many  more,  to  which  the  world 

Its  praise  cannot  refuse  — 
But  of  them  all,  I  love  the  best 

The  hills  of  Santa  Cruz. 

Oh,  how  serenely  glad  they  stand, 
Beneath  the  morning  sun! 


•  OAK  KNOLL,  DANVKRS.  MASS, 

December  6,  1887. 
DEAR  FRIEND  HOWARD  GLYNDON:— 

"  The  Hills  of  Santa  Cruz  "  is  a  lyric  which  would  do  honor  to  any  magazine.  Fine 
in  conception  and  felicitous  in  expression,  it  will  cling  to  the  Santa  Cruz  mountain  range 
forever.  It  will  do  for  the  little  city  by  the  sea  what  Bret  Harte  has  done  for  San  Fran  • 
cisco  and  Mrs.  Mace  has  done  for  Los  Angeles.  It  will  give  new  interest  to  the  sur 
rounding  scenery,  and  really  add  to  its  value  in  the  eyes  of  the  tourist  and  speculator. 

Very  truly  thy  friend, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIKR. 


26  Of  El  Dorado. 

Oh,  how  divinely  fair  they  are 
When  morn  to  noon  hath  run! 

How  virginal  their  fastnesses, 
Where  no  Bacchante  woos 

The  kisses  of  the  grapes  that  grow 
On  hills  of  Santa  Cruz! 

And  then,  how  beautiful  they  look 

Just  when  the  sun  departs, 
With  benediction  on  their  brows 

And  homesteads  on  their  hearts! 
O  hills  of  Promise,  Peace,  and  Joy ! 

No  heart  could  well  refuse 
To  own  the  charm  of  your  delights, 

Dear  hills  of  Santa  Cruz! 

When  the  reluctant  sun  hath  gone 
And  left  ye  lone  and  sweet, 

What  rapture  then  to  trace  the  line 
Where  earth  and  heaven  meet. 

So  low  ye  lie  beneath  the  sky 
We  ne'er  can  you  accuse 


The  Hills  of  Santa  Cruz.  27 

Of  harshness  or  repellant  pride, 
Kind  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 


Ah!  no;  ye  are  forever  dear 

And  restful  to  the  eyes, 
Tho'  ever  changeful,  yet  each  change 

Is  but  a  glad  surprise. 
'Twixt  gentle  skies  and  gentle  seas, 

Your  outlines  never  lose 
The  tenderness  that  Eden  knew, 

Calm  hills  of  Santa  Cruz! 

Ye  stand  before  us  like  to  those 

Meek  angels  sent  of  God, 
Who  chanted  blessings  on  the  earth's 

Imbrued  and  guilty  sod; 
So  ye,  sweet  ministers  of  hope, 

In  mind  and  heart  infuse 
Peace  and  good  will  on  earth,  O  dear, 

Dear  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 


28  Of  El  Dorado. 

And  if  I  be  the  first  to  lay 

The  laurels  at  your  feet, 
Why,  then  my  heart  can  only  say 

The  task  is  passing  sweet,  — 
For  sure  I  am  and  sure  we  are 

Who  ne'er  your  outlines  lose, 
There  are  no  hills  to  match  our  own 

Glad  hills  of  Santa  Cruz ! 


The  Homes  of  Santa  Cruz.  29 


The   Homes  of  Santa  Cruz. 

What  time  the  east  is  reddened  by 

The  flushing  of  the  dawn, 
Before  the  arrows  of  the  Sun 

Are  from  his  quiver  drawn; 

While  the  young  Day,  strong,  rising  up, 
Shakes  from  his  locks  the  dews,  — 

I  watch  the  smoke  like  incense  rise 
From  homes  of  Santa  Cruz ! 

From  where  they  've  climbed  to  nestle  on 
The  mountains'  swelling  crest 

To  where  they  peep  from  out  the  vale, 
As  from  a  sheltered  nest. 

I  deem  they  are  a  favored  race 
Who  rear  their  Lares  here; 


30  Of  El  Dorado. 

Better  than  gold  or  gain  by  far 
These  skies  so  kind  and  clear; 

Sweeter  the  sight  and  smell  of  flowers 
That  round  these  casements  blow 

Than  all  the  wealth  the  warring  world 
Holds  in  its  troubled  flow. 

For  nowhere  rests  the  roving  eye, 
Commissioned  far  or  near, 

On  vine-clad  slope  or  flashing  sea, 
But  that  God's  smile  is  there. 

Or  broken  heart,  or  broken  health, 
Have  drawn  us  from  afar, 

But  as  we  cluster  here  like  bees, 
Each  well  may  bless  his  star. 


Saw  they,  those  brave  old  Spanish  friars, 

Thy  hidden  glories  gleam? 
O  Mission  of  the  Holy  Cross ! 

Saw  they,  as  in  a  dream, 


The  Homes  of  Santa  Cruz.  31 

Thy  rounded  hillslopes,  white  with  homes, 

That  rise  before  me  now, 
What  time  they  stood  upon  thy  beach, 

Or  scaled  Ben  Lomond's  brow? 

They  builded  better  than  they  knew — 

Ah,  not  for  somber  Spain! 
The  clue  was  in  the  hands  of  God, 

And  He  hath  made  it  plain. 

They  builded  better  than  they  knew 

In  planting  here  the  Cross; 
To-day  their  triumph  blossoms  out 

With  no  alloy  of  loss. 

Fruit  of  the  Cross's  tree!    Thy  roots 

Were  nourished  in  their  blood; 
Thy  germ  was  quickened  by  the  prayers 

Of  that  lone  brotherhood. 

The  seed  came  to  the  waiting  soil 
From  far  across  the  seas, 


32  Of  El  Dorado. 

And  found  it  like  those  fabled  isles, 
The  gold  Hesperides! 

0  happy  homes,  on  happy  hills, 
Beneath  such  happy  skies, 

1  bless  ye  in  the  pride  of  noon 

And  when  the  shadow  lies 

Upon  ye,  dwellers  in  the  dells, 
Amid  your  leafy  haunts 

I  gaze,  and  think  the  heart  of  man 
Hath  here  no  further  wants. 

O  City  of  the  Holy  Cross! 

O  city  by  the  sea! 
A  blessed  balm  for  many  a  loss 

Is  the  sweet  sight  of  thee! 

Proudly  upon  thee  sits  the  grace 
Of  thy  immortal  name, 

Fair  flower  of  the  Pacific  Slope, 
Flushed  with  the  sunset's  flame! 


California  Diamonds.  33 


California  Diamonds. 

Who  has  tossed  this  handful  of  diamonds 

Into  the  grass  of  June  — 
Into  this  dew- wet  grass  through  which 

The  wind  goes  singing  a  rune  ? 

Whose  the  hand  so  lavish  and  careless, 

Opened  so  wide  to  throw 
Into  the  flowering  grass  this  peerless 

Treasure  that  glads  me  so  ? 

Oh,  a  handful  of  clear-cut,  shining, 

Virginal,  priceless  gems! 
Some  of  them  nestling,  sparkling,  gleaming, 

Close  to  the  green  grass  stems. 

But  what  setting  were  fairer,  fitter, 
Than  this  dew-wet  grass  of  June? 


34  Of  El  Dorado. 

How  midst  its  green  they  quiver  and  glitter 
Under  the  sun  of  noon! 

Here  is  one  like  an  eye  of  fire, 

And  one  outglitters  the  rest, 
Until  I  bend  me  to  lift  and  clasp  it 

Close  to  my  envious  breast. 

O  my  gems !  they  glimmer  and  shimmer, 
And  fade  like  a  passing  breath  — 

Dewdrops  caught  in  a  spider's  web, 
And  my  human  touch  is  death! 


Capitola.  35 


Capitola. 

Like  some  fair  sea-nymph  flung  ashore, 

Capitola ! 
To  haunt  the  briny  deep  no  more, 

Capitola ! 

Like  some  bright,  bonny  Lorelei  lass, 
Thou  makest  the  bay  thy  looking-glass, 

And  beckonest  to  all  that  pass, 

Capitola ! 


Thou  'rt  like  thy  name-sake,  pretty  place, 

Capitola ! 
Thou  hast  her  arch,  enchanting  grace, 

Capitola ! 
Sly  siren  of  the  laughing  eye, 

Spoiled  darling  of  the  sea  and  sky, 
Once  glimpsed,  we  cannot  pass  thee  by, 

Capitola ! 


36  Of  El  Dorado. 

Thou  sittest  at  the  water's  edge, 

Capitola ! 

Beneath  a  friendly,  sheltering  ledge, 

Capitola! 

Letting  the  tide  play  with  thy  feet, 
Turning  thy  laughing  face  to  greet 

Each  comer  with  a  welcome  sweet, 

Capitola ! 

In  thee,  our  days  glide  on  like  dreams, 

Capitola ! 

Like  flowers  flung  on  loitering  streams, 

Capitola ! 

With  laugh  and  music,  jest  and  dance, 

Surcease  from  care  and  restful  trance, 

And  all  the  glamour  of  romance, 

Capitola ! 

And  then  we  go;  but  from  afar, 

Capitola ! 

Thy  memory  haunts  us,  like  a  star, 

Capitola! 

We  leave  the  toil,  the  stress,  the  strain, 
In  thy  kind  arms  to  rest  again, 

And  listen  to  the  surfs  refrain, 

Capitola ! 

Hotel  Capitola, 

March  23,  1896. 


Memorial  Day  in  California.  37 


Memorial  Day  in  California; 
the  G.  A.  R. 

O  day  of  memories  dear,  yet  sad, 
Proud  tho'  regretful,  glad  yet  tender; 

The  drift  and  wreckage  of  the  mad 
And  fiery  years  of  war-time  splendor. 

Tho'  here  there  be  no  sight  nor  sound 
Of  strife  or  carnage  to  remind  us 

How  the  red  blooms  of  battle  wound 
About  the  stormier  times  behind  us. 

No!  Not  in  all  the  wildwood  wealth 
Of  flowers  that  nature,  open  handed, 

And  laughing  out  in  golden  health, 
Heaps  on  us,  veterans  disbanded, 

Is  there  a  single  one  to  wake 

Old  thrills,  old  pains,  old  camp-fire  stories 


38  Of  El  Dorado. 

Not  one  the  sight  of  which  can  take 
Our  thoughts  back  to  the  awful  glories 

Of  flowerful  fields  that  patriot  blood 
So  cheerfully  and  richly  watered  — 

Flowers  that  smiled  up  to  where  we  stood, 
For  right  and  country  to  be  slaughtered. 

We  cannot  say:  "Like  this  and  this 
Grows  on  the  graves  at  Arlington;" 

Nor  with  a  proud  and  passionate  kiss, 
' '  Like  this,  behold  a  battle  won. ' ' 

No;  on  the  old  fields  where  we  fought 
We  left  the  flowers  and  many  a  token; 

Nothing  to  this  new  land  was  brought 
But  memories  tenderest  when  unspoken. 

And  for  the  sake  of  these  we  stand  — 
A  little,  worn-out  band,  fast  thinning  — 

To-day  with  heart  to  heart,  and  hand 
In  hand,  as  once  at  the  beginning. 


Memorial  Day  in  California.  39 

Stronger  than  links  of  steel  the  thought 
Of  comrades  who  no  longer  listen 

Nor  answer  to  the  roll  call;  fraught 
With  tenderness  that  makes  to  glisten 

The  tears  in  eyes  that  never  fell, 

When  death  stared  in  them  during  battle; 

That  never  faltered  when  the  shell 

Burst  near  them  with  its  direful  rattle. 

O  peaceful  years,  that  grew  between! 

O  happy  graves,  'neath  skies  so  tender! 
And  overgrowing  what  has  been, 

The  present  with  its  glad  surrender. 

Yet,  sad  for  us  when  overhead 

This  day  dawrns,  taking  us  still  further 

From  the  old  times,  so  dear  tho'  dread, 
And  one  is  missing  and  another. 

For  we,  whose  living  hands  bestrew 

Our  comrades'  graves  in  mood  memorial, 


40  Of  El  Dorado. 

Not  long  may  linger  so  to  do, 

And  none  may  wear  our  robes  seignorial. 

When  none  are  left  our  tale  to  tell, 

Not  one  to  answer  to  the  roll, 
When  all  are  mustered  out  and  well 

We  slumber,  one  victorious  whole, 

Memorial  mornings,  fresh  with  dew, 
Shall  see  our  children  glad,  unscarred 

By  the  fierce  fires  that  we  went  through, 

Strew  flowers  where  ' '  glory  mounts  on  guard. ' ' 


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